


come to deserve

by kathryne



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Emotional Sex, F/F, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Pre-Canon, necklace backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27426349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: After Lykon's death, Andromache and Quỳnh come to terms with the possibility that they could lose each other, too.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2020





	come to deserve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mautadite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/gifts).



_What is fallow now will come to deserve  
Poetry’s most lovely words_

*

She stands in the icy stream until the light has nearly faded, scrubbing herself over and over with handfuls of fine sand from the bank. Her skin tingles, then numbs; then it heals, the pain blossoms afresh, and the cycle repeats. Eventually, the mountain-melt runs clear, free of dirt and blood. Still she stays, half-submerged, waiting for the moments of numbness. 

Despite the sand, despite the water, she swears her fingertips still feel the imprint of the rocks they piled up one by one to make a cairn. It’s impossible, of course - but who is she to say what’s possible any more?

“Andromache.”

Quỳnh is pale in the gathering darkness, silhouetted against the rocky bank. She has Andromache’s spare clothing in her hands and lays the bundle carefully on the shore. “We should eat,” she says, and walks back into the woods.

A trickle of guilt oozes through Andromache’s cold-fogged brain. She fights the current, step by step, drags herself out of the water and into her trousers and robe. It’s a struggle to pick up her bloodied armour, but she can’t afford to lose it. Tomorrow she will make herself sit down and mend its holes and slashes; for now, she shoves it in her pack.

Quỳnh has built up the fire, higher than they usually allow themselves. Tonight, they can get away with it. The raiders they had been following are dead or scattered; no one left in these mountains will dare to challenge them again so soon. 

They should be celebrating, all three of them. Instead, just two sit in silence, ships set adrift without their anchor. 

Andromache doesn’t taste the food; still, she eats, her body clamouring to regain the strength it used and determined to go on living. She fetches the skin of kumis from her pack, but it curdles in her mouth. She sits down hard and drops it in the dust.

“Andromache?” Quỳnh says. In her voice, Andromache hears all the uncertainty she has been battling in herself.

She turns away, unwilling to see disappointment or fear on Quỳnh’s face. “I don’t know why, Quỳnh,” she says roughly. “I don’t know what happened! I don’t understand. And I don’t - ” She swallows hard, looking down. “I don’t know what to _do_.”

She doesn’t hear Quỳnh move until her small hand covers Andromache’s own, hot against skin still chilled from the stream. When she spins, startled, Quỳnh is mere breaths away. There’s no fear in her eyes.

“I do,” Quỳnh whispers. She leans in, aim as unerring as ever, and kisses Andromache. 

Through countless lifetimes, Quỳnh has been the only constant in Andromache’s world - before Lykon and now after, in lands too numerous to name and battles as soon fought as forgotten. The time prior to their meeting has become a blur, and Andromache has let it, preferring the vivid memories they create together, the way Quỳnh meets her with clarity and purpose. Suddenly, she learns things can become sharper yet; suddenly Quỳnh brings not certainty, but surprise.

Sensation bursts over Andromache’s body, adrenaline flooding her to the tips of her fingers. She gathers Quỳnh in her arms and crushes her close. The strength of her own response shocks her, throws her off-balance, and yet she finds she doesn’t want to be steady. They slide together off the rock she was seated on and she lands on her back atop their heaped blankets, Quỳnh straddling her waist. Quỳnh’s weight atop her is grounding and Andromache arches up, wanting her closer still.

Quỳnh pulls back, gasping, and despite the fire’s heat, her absence leaves Andromache colder even than before. She reaches up, brushing soft strands of hair out of Quỳnh’s face. Quỳnh leans her cheek into Andromache’s palm and swallows hard.

“If there’s no more time, Andromache…”

Andromache starts to protest, but Quỳnh presses quelling fingers to her lips. “If there’s no more time,” she repeats, “I want all of you.” She trails her fingers down, over Andromache’s heart, and plucks at the fold of her robe, but her eyes stay on Andromache’s, asking.

“Yes,” Andromache breathes, and, hand steady, brings Quỳnh’s mouth back to hers.

Quỳnh kisses with the same ferocity she brings to battle, a single-minded focus Andromache has always admired. Now she is its target, and it pins her in place more surely than Quỳnh’s hips holding her down. No matter: Quỳnh has clearly planned her attack, and she moves swiftly, peeling Andromache from her robe and pushing her undershirt up over her head.

“Stop,” Andromache begs, and Quỳnh stills, her hands on Andromache’s arms. Each of her fingers burns like a brand; Andromache thinks she can trace every place Quỳnh has touched her - and every place she hasn’t yet, marked and defined by her absence. But beneath Quỳnh’s confidence, Andromache senses something more. It pains her to pause, to wait, but she’d do much worse for Quỳnh.

“We have time,” Andromache says, her thumbs rubbing circles on Quỳnh’s thighs, keen to keep them connected. “We do!” she insists as Quỳnh looks skeptical. “You and me, Quỳnh, we will have time.”

“Do you swear?” Unexpectedly, Quỳnh seems small, her usual assurance shrinking as she folds in on herself.

“I swear,” Andromache says, firmly enough that she believes herself. 

Quỳnh rewards her with a kiss, and it fills her soul to bursting, but somehow it’s not enough. Despite her steadying words, Andromache can’t slow herself now: she fumbles with the ties of Quỳnh’s robe, uncharacteristically clumsy.

She has seen Quỳnh bare almost every way possible, from their first days together where Andromache revived her in the desert to stripped down for sparring and everything in between. Now, her robe falls open and the fire lights a strip of skin from belly to sternum, and the barest glimpse leaves Andromache dry-mouthed and desperate. She presses her palm to Quỳnh’s chest, feeling the rapid thunder of her heart.

But Quỳnh shrugs off her touch and plants her hands against Andromache’s shoulders, firm and solid, no hint of frailty visible. “Then I will take my time,” she declares, her smile sharp as her sword.

For once, Andromache finds herself facing a challenge she doesn’t want to meet. She wills herself to relax despite the urgency singing in her blood. She knows now what it means to truly trust Quỳnh with her life; she knows now that she always will.

“Good,” Quỳnh says, and Andromache sinks further down into the blankets beneath her. The sigh of the wind, the snap of the fire, the cold white gleam of the stars above them all shrink to nothingness as her world narrows to Quỳnh’s touch.

Andromache has watched Quỳnh’s hands set bones and take lives, mend shirts and string bows with deadly accuracy. She can track Quỳnh’s entire history in the feel of those hands, rough where she grips her sword or nocks her arrows and yet inexpressibly tender, as though she’s touching Andromache for the first time.

Andromache squirms under Quỳnh’s slow, deliberate exploration, but Quỳnh refuses to be hurried. She runs her hands along Andromache’s torso, smoothing her robe out around her until she is bare from the waist up and trembling with need.

“Don’t make me _wait_ ,” Andromache growls, and Quỳnh rewards her by leaning down to her breasts and taking them in her mouth, one after the other and back again until the breath leaves Andromache’s lungs. Quỳnh’s wicked smile of earlier is soft pressed into Andromache’s skin, and yet its bite is still present. Her teeth scrape the side of Andromache’s breast, a tease that is also a warning, and a fire runs through her, straight to her core.

Andromache cries out, helpless, and buries her hands in Quỳnh’s hair. She’s desperate for Quỳnh to touch her properly - but desperate too for _her_ turn, for _her_ chance to see Quỳnh lost in pleasure.

Quỳnh licks one last time at Andromache’s nipple, chuckling as she shivers. “Of course,” Quỳnh says, drawing her words out deliberately, “I could always go slowly _next_ time, instead.”

Andromache can’t form words, but whatever Quỳnh sees on her face speaks clearly enough. Quỳnh eases backwards, tugging at the top of Andromache’s trousers.

Again she seems to need to touch every bit of skin she uncovers, hands sweeping over Andromache’s hips and thighs. Andromache’s muscles quiver and she arches upwards, begging without words.

And then Quỳnh stops, stilling entirely, her hand frozen against Andromache’s left hip.

“What…” Andromache manages, struggling up on her elbows. “Quỳnh, what’s wrong?”

Quỳnh shakes her head, trailing a finger down Andromache’s side. The flickering firelight makes it hard to see what she’s staring at, but she traces the same shape again and Andromache understands.

She has a scar there, one of a few scattered reminders of the time before her first death that remain clearer than her actual memories. She doesn’t recall receiving it, only that it was slow to heal, leaving her weak for the span from one solstice to the next. The girl she was then is far away now, and yet never fully gone.

She rests a hand on the back of Quỳnh’s neck, feeling the tremors running through her, offering comfort but demanding nothing.

Quỳnh lets her head fall, resting it on Andromache’s belly, and they lie together for a long moment, their breathing the only movement.

“Andromache,” Quỳnh says eventually. She cranes her neck, peering upwards until their eyes meet. In their depths, Andromache sees the weight of centuries, pain and uncertainty and loss, but she sees hope, too, and more: she sees a future. “I am glad you are with me.”

Andromache’s chest clenches and she swallows before she can speak. “You and me, Quỳnh,” she repeats, a promise as holy as any she’s heard or given.

Quỳnh sighs. “Yes,” she says, kissing Andromache’s belly, “just you and me.” Then she slides her fingers down into the wet heat at Andromache’s core and words cease to matter.

Quỳnh’s touch sparks a new kind of wanting, savage as any battle rage; Andromache burns with it. Of all the people she has bedded, none have ever been allowed to know her like Quỳnh does - and Quỳnh uses that knowledge, driving Andromache higher, harder. Her fingers work between Andromache’s legs and the spill of her hair over Andromache’s hips shifts as she looks up, locking their gazes once more. Andromache is pinned, open and vulnerable, and though the fierce fire in Quỳnh’s eyes doesn’t fade, it softens.

“Bold Andromache,” she says, her touch light and maddening. “All those times when we were sparring and I sought to defeat you. Had I only known the trick to bringing you down, I should have had you on your knees long ago.”

A vision of the two of them grappling in the dirt springs up in Andromache’s mind, and she feels herself grow slicker still. Yet she forces her voice under control, seeking a moment of flippancy to draw back from the relentless need that drives them both. “On my knees?” she asks lightly. “Is that where you want me?” Quỳnh’s face flushes further at that, and Andromache grins, counting it a point on her side. 

But Quỳnh shifts the balance again. “Would you do that, then?” she asks in turn. “Would you get on your knees? For me?” Her fingers part Andromache’s lips and slide into her cunt, and Andromache cries out to the heavens in delight. 

The muscles in Quỳnh’s arms flex as she presses into Andromache, brushing the pinpoint of her pleasure with each thrust, and Andromache abandons coherence, collapsing back and giving herself to Quỳnh until one final burst of heat overtakes her, bright as the sun and burning to the very tips of her toes.

Her eyes fall closed; when she opens them, it is to Quỳnh just above her, dipping down to plant soft kisses along her neck. She is once more astride Andromache’s hips, but she has shed her trousers, and her cunt is hot against Andromache’s belly.

Andromache winds her hands in the lapels of Quỳnh’s robe, tugging her down until they lie with legs entwined, belly to belly, breast to breast. “Should I get on my knees now?” she whispers into Quỳnh’s ear. Taking Quỳnh’s earlobe between her teeth, she bites gently and then soothes the tiny hurt with her tongue, a promise of pleasures to come.

Quỳnh shudders, but she shakes her head. “Stay here,” she says, rocking her hips against the strong muscle of Andromache’s thigh. “Stay with me. Just like this.”

“Just like this,” Andromache echoes. Resting her hands on Quỳnh’s waist, she holds her close as she grinds down, as her breathing becomes shorter, louder, until she’s gasping in Andromache’s arms, brilliantly alive.

It takes Quỳnh some time to recover her composure, yet Andromache finds that she would happily hold her for much, much longer. When Quỳnh pushes herself up and away, Andromache shivers, nearly reaching to draw her right back down again. But Quỳnh leans back and shrugs out of her robe, leaving her naked save for her necklace. She poses deliberately, stretching her arms up to the sky, then runs her hands over her hair, down over her breasts and belly, and rocks into her own touch. Andromache can only stare.

“Now, remind me,” Quỳnh says. She draws her hand from between her legs and trails it over Andromache’s body to press against her lips. “What did you say about being on your knees for me?”

Andromache fights a smile, and then gives into it, letting her tongue flick out to tease Quỳnh’s fingertips. “We needn’t hurry,” she says. “There will be so many more chances. Not everything has to happen tonight.”

“I know,” Quỳnh says. “I promise you, this is only the first of our nights. But…” She lets the sentence dangle and bends down, pressing her lips to Andromache’s. She kisses her slowly, her teeth sharp; Andromache tastes blood, just briefly, before she heals and even the pain disappears. 

“But I’m not yet ready to give up this night,” Quỳnh continues, smiling into their kiss. “And I am not yet finished with you.”

“Well then.” Andromache shifts her shoulders and braces her feet, then surges upwards, flipping Quỳnh onto her back. Her hair fans out around her and she closes her eyes, laughing. Andromache runs her thumb across the delicate skin of her cheek and soaks in the sight of her. Briefly, she wishes she could make time stop, give the two of them this moment to live over and over again, but she shoves the thought away as soon as it appears. If they’ve learned anything in their long lives, it’s to keep moving forward. She takes a breath. “What’s next?”

By the time they are both spent, the fire is burning low. Andromache leaves Quỳnh in a sleepy huddle just long enough to bank it, careful to keep them safe throughout the night’s coming chill.

When she climbs back into their roll of blankets, Quỳnh leans up, stretching her arms around Andromache’s neck. Andromache bends, expecting another embrace, but instead Quỳnh pulls back just as swiftly. 

Swinging between them is Quỳnh’s necklace. 

“Quỳnh, what - why?” Andromache holds herself up and tries to focus on the pendant’s gentle sway. Impressed on its front, a sinuous dragon winks in the firelight, its spiralling coils seeming almost to move. She’s never seen Quỳnh without it, save when the leather thong is damaged or crumbling with age and must be replaced.

“Long ago,” Quỳnh says softly, “a dragon-king lay with an immortal, and from their children all my people are descended. And perhaps not just mine - perhaps I and Lykon and any others like us carry their blood. But you, Andromache.” She draws Andromache down next to her and presses the pendant against her chest. “You are my dragon.”

She curls into Andromache’s embrace and tucks tightly under her chin, hand still on the necklace. “He will keep you safe.”

A long moment passes before Andromache can find her voice. “And who will keep _you_ safe?” she asks.

There’s no reply; Quỳnh is asleep; Her breath whispers regularly over Andromache’s skin. 

Andromache holds her close, staring sleepless at the fire’s glowing embers. She doesn’t need to hear Quỳnh’s answer, not really. 

“Just you and me,” she promises again. “Until the end.”

**Author's Note:**

> Epigraph from Hawksley Workman, “All the Trees Are Hers.”
> 
> Thanks to my beta, walkthegale, who made this much better and helped me do what I really wanted to with it! 
> 
> Notes on historical research:  
> I spent a lot of time with my nose against my tv screen staring at that necklace, all for a single paragraph. Ah, writing. I can’t actually make out what it is, so I’ve tried to come up with a logical story. If I’ve fucked anything up, please let me know so I can fix it. My research suggests that the Vietnamese era Quỳnh likely hails from, the Dong Son period (1000 BCE - 100 CE), is known for artefacts with decorations including spirals, boat motifs, trees, people, and animals, and that beliefs of the time included their descent from a dragon and an immortal, as in the fable Quỳnh tells Andy. _However_ , both English and French sources on the subject all seem to be derived solely from work in the '50s and '70s by a guy named Wales, so if anyone has more recent or more accurate information, I would love to rely on it instead.


End file.
